The David Lynch experience

I got to meet one of my favorite artists, David Lynch, this past weekend. Not because I’m so special or important or any of that bullshit; I just showed up and waited in a line with a bunch of other schmucks for an hour (getting an amazing sunburn on my neck in the process). He was at the Whole Foods store in West Hollywood to promote his coffee which they are now selling, and also his new album, I guess. My entire encounter with him lasted maybe thirty seconds, during which I awkwardly attempted to thank him for picking my entry as runner-up in his music video contest a couple years back. Of course, as is normally the case when I make the tragic mistake of attempting to talk to people, I came off sounding like something between Charlie Brown’s teacher and Ralphie asking Santa for a Red Rider BB gun in A Christmas Story. After I was finished saying things in what I imagined at the time to be intelligible English as David Lynch scribbled all over my newly purchased bag of David Lynch organic coffee, he extended his hand, which I took in my own clammy, sweaty appendage and shook for just slightly longer than is considered socially acceptable, and I was on my merry way.

I don’t mean to say it was a bad experience. There are certainly worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon. But due to the way my brain works, I’m unable to fully enjoy the experience of meeting one of my heroes without also acknowledging the reality that the pleasure is entirely on my end; to them, I’m just some tall, lanky weirdo with all the charm and eloquence of Rain Man.